


made with love

by IceEckos12



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Minor Injuries, background qp timsasha, background wtgfs, gbbo au, judges are gertrude adelard and jurgen leitner, michael and helen are the hosts, recipes were borrowed from season 5 of gbbo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:14:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28492950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceEckos12/pseuds/IceEckos12
Summary: The Great British Bake Off is hard enough without emotions thrown into the mix. Unfortunately for Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood, they don't have much of a choice in the matter.Featuring: a pinch of heated competition, a dash of mutual pining, and a whole mess of culinary shenanigans.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 50
Kudos: 101





	made with love

**Author's Note:**

> let me know if i've forgotten to tag anything! inspired by rendherring's gbbo au.
> 
> thank you to everyone in the jgm discord who helped me with the summary!

**_Jon_ **

Jon looked nervously up and down the line, fiddling with the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt. He recognized a few of the faces—Tim and Sasha were not completely unexpected, considering he briefly met the two at a baking masterclass in London a few years ago, but his _ex_ certainly was a surprise. He’d known that she’d been hired by the BBC a few years prior, but he hadn’t expected to see her _now._

Georgie wasn’t participating; instead she was at the arm of one of the other contestants, a blind woman with bright blue hair who he _thought_ was called Margaret. Melinda? Something like that.

She hadn’t noticed him yet, but that was mostly because he was hiding behind his partner in line. It wasn’t like they’d parted on _bad_ terms, or anything. It...might have actually been better if they _had_ had a horrible, messy breakup. Instead they’d just sort of drifted apart, slowly and awkwardly going from boyfriend and girlfriend to acquaintances.

“You nervous?”

Jon blinked and looked up at his line partner, a bit startled at being distracted from hiding from Georgie. He was a big man, almost half a foot taller than Jon, with thick strawberry-blond curls and a round, gentle face that looked as though it was meant for smiling.

“Oh, uh,” Jon coughed into his hand and surreptitiously stepped out from the man’s shadow. “A bit.”

The man smiled then, and Jon was correct—the expression fit like a well-worn glove, sweet and kind as anything. It knocked something loose in his chest, catching his breath for one inexplicable moment. “I certainly am. Couldn’t practice all that much this week, but I’m hoping I’ll get lucky.”

 _You’re hoping to get_ lucky? Jon didn’t even try to stop the scowl curling his lips, that breathless awe fading like water draining from a sieve. Luck certainly wouldn’t keep him from getting kicked off if his bakes were terrible. How the hell did this guy even get a spot on the show?

He was saved from having to respond—and probably from saying something horrible, as was his habit—by one of the crew calling for them to get into position. Jon resolutely faced forward, mentally writing the man off as a non-threat. He’d probably get kicked off within the first couple of weeks, and then Jon could forget about his endearing, dimpled smile.

A couple of minutes later they were all moving in tandem toward the tent, their feet sinking into the lush grass. Jon almost had to run to keep up with the brisk pace, and not for the first time he cursed the smoking habit he’d only just managed to drop a year ago, that his lungs still weren’t entirely recovered from.

And then they were inside the tent, peeling away to their respective benches. Jon was at the very back on the right side, while his line partner was at the bench across from him. Taking his queue from the bakers around him, he quickly pulled his plain brown apron over his head, carefully smoothing the wrinkles from it.

It struck him then, that he was _here._ He’d spent the past few years obsessively watching the Great British Bakeoff, studying Gertrude and Adelard’s cookbooks, practicing for this moment. It didn’t quite feel real, and he could see that same sort of awed anticipation, that exhilaration, on the rest of the bakers.

They were all here for the same reason as Jon. He could _not_ lose sight of that.

And then the two hosts, Michael and Helen, walked into the room.

They looked as bright and dizzying as they did on TV, perhaps even moreso. Michael’s long, curly blond hair was held into a gravity-defying bun by a strange, corkscrewing hairpin, and he was wearing a pant suit that looked to be black—unless one stared at it for more than two seconds, in which case one realized that it shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow, like there was an oil slick painted over the top.

Helen wasn’t much better. Her brown hair had been decorated with beads and other odd hairpieces, and her makeup was disconcertingly asymmetrical, guiding one’s eye like a mathematical golden spiral. Her pantsuit was a pale white that glimmered gold in the soft light of the tent.

They were _both_ wearing horrible, garish hawaiian shirts under their formal, fitted jackets. Jon felt off-kilter just looking at them, and resolved to ignore them as best he could over the course of the challenges.

And behind _them_ were the judges.

First there was Gertrude Robinson, a veritable baking legend. She’d spent her formative years working in a family bakery in downtown London, before suddenly quitting and turning to globe-trotting, attempting to sniff out the best recipes in the world. From patisseries in Paris, to food stalls in bustling Bangkok markets, to tiny mom-and-pop cafes in rural United states, there wasn’t a continent she hadn’t set foot on. Jon still wasn’t sure why she was now working with the BBC, but _he_ certainly wasn’t going to complain.

Second was Adelard Dekker. He was born into a modestly wealthy family, and spent his weekends baking for the homeless at the local church, using his own money to buy the supplies. He eventually started his own bakery, hiring the people that he’d once fed to be his employees. He’d eventually given the employees full ownership so that he could publish his cookbooks, which were some of the most famous in the world.

Finally was Jurgen Leitner. A London native, his family had been a household name in the baking world for almost a century. Leitner had inherited his family’s empire of bakeries, which was spread across the continent. Although he had never worked in them personally, he was widely regarded to be the authority on European baking, and was known to be an especially harsh food critic.

(If Jon was being honest, though, he wasn’t a huge fan of Jurgen Leitner. The man had been caught up in some sort of scandal a few years ago, where he had been accused of plagiarizing recipes. There had never been any definitive resolution to the whole issue, but it was enough to put Jon on edge.)

“Bakers, welcome to your first ever signature challenge,” Helen began, her voice low and dulcet as she spoke. “Our illustrious judges would like for you to make your best swiss roll.”

“They will be judging you on the quality of the spiral in your cake,” Michael continued, and then let out a strange, grating laugh that set Jon’s teeth on edge. “Just try not to stare at it too hard, or you might get dizzy.”

Helen didn’t seem bothered by that rather ominous statement. “Quite. Anyway, you have two and a half hours. Good luck. On your mark, get set, _bake!”_

Jon had practiced a lot throughout the week, but this still somehow felt...different. Maybe it was the charged atmosphere, maybe it was the noises coming from the other baker’s benches, maybe it was the cameras hovering around them like electronic eyes—he didn’t know. Regardless, he was relieved that he’d put so much into perfecting his signature and showstopper; they were almost muscle memory, at this point.

He kept a close eye on the other bakers as he worked. As he’d expected, Sasha and Tim seemed to be doing quite well. Tim kept cracking jokes to Sasha, though her only reaction was to smile and shake her head at her batter. Likewise, the tall woman in the hijab and the shorter blonde across from her were attending to their stations with an almost intimidating sternness.

There were also people who were doing...less well. Even from the other side of the room, Jon could see that the big man’s hands from earlier were shaking, and there was a faintly dazed expression on his face, like he wasn’t entirely there. Another man, an extremely short one with a strange, branching scar across his neck and cheek had apparently forgotten to add the butter, and was restarting his cake.

Jon breathed out harshly through his nose and lowered his head, focusing on adding the correct amount of red dye into his dough. He couldn’t let himself get distracted watching the other contestants; he might start to question his own methods. In a situation like this, his brain was his worst enemy.

About twenty minutes in, he was startled out of his concentration by the cohort of judges and hosts. He licked his dry lips and pasted on a smile, trying to look friendly and not like the Pokemon theme song had been playing on repeat in his head.

“Tell us about your swiss roll, Jon,” Helen said, smiling widely.

He turned his toward the white chocolate designs he was making on a piece of parchment paper to avoid staring at her dizzying makeup. “I’m making a red velvet and white chocolate swiss roll.”

“And what was the inspiration behind it?”

Jon glanced up quickly, a little bit starstruck at the fact that _Adelard Dekker_ was the one who had asked that. The man’s eyes were dark and reassuring, and Jon found himself relaxing a little. “They’re pretty classic flavors, and I, I wanted to start with something _classic,_ something that people recognized.”

“Well, we look forward to it,” Gertrude said, though the supposed sentiment didn’t reach her eyes.

Jon sighed in relief when they finally left, and went back to work.

**_Martin_ **

Martin was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t a little bit in over his head.

He hadn’t been lying when he said he was nervous, although he regretted it the moment he said, _I’m hoping I get lucky._ Luck only had a little to do with it—the ones who practiced, the ones with skill, they were the ones who did well. He’d meant to explain himself to the strange man he found himself standing next to, but they’d been prompted into motion, and then it was too late.

He...really did need to be lucky for this week, though. He’d been using a shitty, temperamental stove for the majority of his life, and hadn’t had excess money to waste on practicing bakes over and over again. The week had been far, far too stressful, and not only because he was going to be on the _Great British Bakeoff._ He’d had to fend off anxiety at wasting food on practicing.

And a swiss roll! Martin had only made fancy things like that for special occasions. He’d spent half the week just trying to figure out how to roll the thing without it _cracking._

Gertrude, Jurgen, and Adelard certainly didn’t help his anxiety. Adelard at least deigned to smile, but Gertrude just sort of looked at you like you were on the other end of a microscope, and Jurgen affected the most disconcerting apathy Martin had ever experienced from a person, besides perhaps his mother.

Well, he affected disconcerting apathy if he wasn’t judging. When he _was_ judging, he was, well. Judgemental was a good word for it.

“It’s not much to look at,” Jurgen said, frowning. “See, you’ve got some cracking on the sides.”

Gertrude shot Jurgen a look that was as dry as a desert, before turning Martin’s strawberries and cream swiss roll sideways and indicating the swirl, or lack thereof. “See, you’ve put too much in the center, so you haven’t got that tight roll you’re looking for.”

“It _is_ a most inviting pink color,” Adelard added mildly. “Why don’t we cut into it, see how it tastes?”

 _“I_ am certainly looking forward to it,” Michael said, rubbing his long fingers together. “Aren’t you, Helen?”

Helen’s smile was disconcertingly wide, and Martin had to do a double take, certain that she had more teeth than she was supposed to. “The best part of the job.”

Martin almost collapsed to the ground in relief at the expressions they all made when they took a bite.

“This is quite scrummy,” Gertrude said, her expression still intense and deeply intimidating. “The flavors pair well together, and the cake itself is quite light.”

“It’s a very good bake,” Adelard agreed. “It’s a shame about the appearance.”

“You won’t be wanting all of this, will you Martin?” Helen asked, reaching out with her fork, cutting another slice and tucking it into a napkin. “I hope you don’t mind if I just…”

“Now Helen, don’t you think it’s unfair that _you_ get extra and _I_ don’t?” Michael said, even as he secreted a piece of cake into a napkin and folded it into their breast pocket like it was a sugary handkerchief.

They laughed at each other then, strange and discordant, like nails running over a chalkboard. Martin tried not to cringe too badly, although he could see the man across from him—Jon, Helen had said—wincing and rubbing at his ears. He had the sudden, absurd impression that the two hosts didn’t _actually_ like each other, which was of course untrue. Their friendship was legendary.

Several hours later found him collapsing onto the bed of his hotel room. He groaned, and jammed his palms into his eye sockets, trying not to feel too discouraged and failing miserably.

The technical challenge, Leitner’s cherry cake, had been a _nightmare._ He hadn’t realized that you needed to dry the cherries before putting them in, so he’d had a soggy bottom, which was unforgivable to Adelard. The man was usually pretty laid back, except when it came to soggy bottoms. At least he hadn’t been in last—no, that honor had gone to a woman named Jane Prentiss, who’d had to restart her bake completely.

Still, though. Ninth wasn’t a very nice place to be.

His roommates had done alright, though. Tim Stoker, the tall, handsome man with short black hair and an easy going smile, had gotten fifth. Jonathan Sims, the stern man he’d made a fool of himself in front of, had gotten second, just below Melanie King.

“Well, that was alright for the first day,” Tim said cheerfully, sounding chipper despite the grueling time they’d all had.

Martin rolled over and gave Tim a small, half-hearted smile. “Speak for yourself. I gave Adelard Dekker a cake with a _soggy bottom.”_

Tim affected a horrified look. “Oh _no,_ you’re lucky to have come out of that one unscathed.”

Then he turned, unexpectedly, to Jon. The man had quietly been fiddling with a book in the corner of the room, and the second he felt the scrutiny he tensed. “What about you, then? Jon, right? You must be feeling pretty good.”

“Past success is not an indication of future performance,” Jon muttered, almost too quietly to be heard. Then he shook his head, gathered his toiletries into his arms, and asked, “Does anyone mind if I take the shower?” before disappearing into the bathroom without waiting for an answer.

They were quiet for a moment. The second the water started up, though, Tim turned to Martin and said, with an air of authority, “Okay, ten quid that’s not his real accent.”

“It’s not that bad,” Martin protested weakly, although he’d been thinking the exact same thing.

“It’s ridiculous though, isn’t it?” Tim crossed his arms over his chest. “No one talks like that. Maybe he’s an American who’s pretending to be British.”

Martin couldn’t help but laugh at that.

**_Jon_ **

“We’ll keep the questions simple,” Gerry explained as he fiddled with his camera. “If you want to do a retake just let us know. It’s better to do it a bunch of times now than have to redo it later. Look at me and not the camera, okay?”

Jon nodded, rubbing the cuff of his shirt between his fingers. Maybe it was because of his ADHD, but he tended to stutter a lot when he got nervous, or when he didn’t think his sentences all the way through before saying them. He wouldn’t _mind_ doing multiple takes...but he really wanted to go home and rest. He felt half-dead on his feet after the stress of the third challenge.

He was honestly a little surprised with how well it’d gone. He’d practiced at home of course, but he hadn’t quite perfected it before the start of the first weekend. With his luck, he’d half expected for his entire bake to go belly up. Instead, though...

“Is there anyone you can call, by the way?”

“Hm?” Jon looked up, then realized that Gerry had asked him a question. “Oh, um, no. No, there’s no one I can call.”

Gerry didn’t comment, just nodded and took one last look through his camera before the recording light turned on. “Alright. So, you’re the first star baker! How do you feel?”

Jon ducked his head, embarrassed at the reminder, before remembering the instructions and jerking his gaze toward Gerry. “I mean...yeah, it feels good. It feels pretty good.” He’d meant to continue with something light, something superficial that the audience wouldn’t think too much of, but what came out instead was— “I mean, it doesn’t mean that I can afford to relax, though. So many things went wrong today. I just—I got lucky, and just because I did well this week means nothing if I get sent home the next, and—”

“Woah!” the red _recording_ light flicked off, and Gerry stepped out from behind his camera, looking concerned. “Woah, stop for a second. Jon—can I call you Jon? Take some deep breaths.”

Jon inhaled sharply, and felt his face heat up. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d been holding his breath.

Gerry shook his head. “You realize you’ve done something really special here today, right? You’ve won star baker during the _first week_ of the Great British Bakeoff! That’s a testament to your...your hard work and your talent.”

 _Ugh._ Jon hated the word _talent._ Talent implied that this was something that he naturally excelled at, and it wasn’t. Baking was something he got wrong over and over again, that he’d had to work at, that he was never satisfied with. He doubted the judges would be impressed for much longer either. “I’ve set their expectations too high, and I won’t be able to meet them again.”

Gerry hesitated, his mouth twisting up in consternation, his grey gaze troubled. Then he sighed. “I obviously can’t say whether or not that’s true, but you wouldn’t have impressed them today if you didn’t have the ability to do so again. If it’s any help, I think that you’re going to do really well.”

“That’s so reassuring, coming from the cameraman,” Jon muttered, rolling his eyes. Then he realized how rude that sounded and quickly glanced over to check Gerry’s expression, prepared for the man to be offended.

He wasn’t, though. He just snorted, like Jon had been funny rather than insulting. “Yeah okay, wiseass. You ready to go back on camera?”

Jon decided right then and there that he would make sure to give Gerry the remainders of his bakes.

_Jonathan Sims stands in front of the camera, smiling nervously._

_“I mean, yeah, star baker. It doesn’t quite feel real, you know? But...yeah, it’s incredible. I’m going to have to step up my game if I want to continue to impress the judges, though.”_

_Sasha James sits in a bed of flowers, her hands folded over her knees._

_“It’s really intense in there, more so than I expected. At least I’ll be more prepared for next week. I think I’m really going to shock them. Star baker_ will _be mine.”_

_Michael Crew shuffles awkwardly, his eyes rimmed with red. It’s obvious that he’s been crying._

_“That, um. That signature really...that wasn’t good. Thought I might pull it together for the showstopper, but...You don’t expect to go home first though, you know? You think, as long as you’re not last, then...but someone’s always got to be last, haven’t they? And this week it just so happened to be me.”_

_Martin Blackwood sits beside a river, staring pensively out into the water._

_“I think—I think that I got really, really lucky this week. Starting off in the bottom two, it isn’t...it’s not good. I can’t afford to do that poorly again, not if I want to stay in this competition.”_

_He hesitates, before adding,_

_“I don’t want to rely on luck to keep my place in this competition.”_

**_Jon_ **

Jon was just walking back to his car when he heard someone call his name.

 _Oh no,_ he thought, and started walking faster, ducking his head.

“Jonathan Sims, don’t you run away from me!”

Jon sighed, and grudgingly slowed to a stop, allowing Georgie to catch up with him. “Hi, Georgie.”

She paused a few feet in front of him, looking oddly hesitant, unsure in a way he’d never seen her before. “Been a while.”

And then they were horribly quiet, shuffling their feet in the grass, avoiding each other’s gazes. Jon desperately wanted to be anywhere other than here.

Finally, Georgie blurted out, “You never called.”

“Neither did you,” he snapped back on reflex.

A long, slow sigh gusted from Georgie’s lips, and she shook her head. “Jon, I don’t want to fight with you. You...you don’t have to hide from me, you know?”

Jon was quiet. He didn’t know what to say, which seemed par for the course when it came to Georgie. He was never entirely sure what she wanted from him, which he supposed explained why they hadn’t worked out.

She drew herself up, seeming to sense his hesitance. “Well...I’ve missed being your friend, so...if you want to meet up for coffee or something, just give me a call. Same number.”

“I’ve missed you too.” It was a relief to say, after so long of not speaking to each other. “I’ll—I’ll _actually_ call you this time, okay?”

The smile she gave him was just as warm as he remembered it. “I’d like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> just wanted to clarify for those who dont watch gbbo - there are three challenges each week, two the first day, one the second day. the first challenge is the signature, which the bakers are allowed to practice. the second is the technical, which the bakers dont know about until the day of (in this chapter, jane prentiss got last in the technical, while melanie got first). the final challenge is the showstopper, which again, the bakers can practice during the week. jon won star baker because he did the best overall!


End file.
